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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833668">Hands</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard'>draculard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Gratuitous Violin Playing, Hand porn, Holmes looking at Watson's hands: NICE, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is a Good Doctor, M/M, Watson is competent and smart, Watson looking at Holmes's hands: nice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:27:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Naturally, there are some things Watson thinks about Holmes that don't make it into the books.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>98</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He watches Holmes’s hands as he plays, his long thin fingers arranged artfully over the bow. The delicate bones in the back of his hand flex as he plucks the strings, and Watson can almost imagine the mournful music is coming from those bones, and not from the violin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t decide if that’s ghoulish or beautiful. He decides to keep it out of his narrative of this case; Holmes will be far too pleased with it either way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the meantime, he settles back, watches the graceful curve of Holmes’s fingers as he draws the bow over the strings, the carefully controlled movements of his wrist. In this light, soft and close to dusk, his skin seems unblemished and white, like the portraits of aristocracy Watson has seen hung in museums (and, quite irritatingly, in the elder Holmes’s office). </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His index finger curls tightly against the bow, his thumb supporting it, the fingers of his other hand moving so quickly they’re impossible to follow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Close your eyes,” Holmes murmurs; his own eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his cheekbones. “Listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Watson says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps his eyes open and watches Holmes’s hands instead.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Their latest client has a habit of speaking without truly listening to herself; her voice is grating — loud and flat with no sense of self-awareness — and she stumbles over her words incessantly as she tells her story, something she could fix easily if she just paused to think for a moment before going on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watson can’t listen to her; he lets his gaze wander the room and tries not to let his irritation show, and naturally, his eyes fall on the only thing worth looking at: Holmes. He sits lounging in his chair, a thin line between his eyebrows and his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Watson can see Holmes’s fingertips brushing the underside of his jaw, his short nails trailing faintly and automatically over his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s what Holmes always does when he’s thinking. His hands are always in play somehow, and as Watson tunes their newest client out, he sees nearly every possible gesture take its turn. He watches Holmes trace his lips as he puzzles through a problem in his head, watches him lean his cheek against his palm so that his forefinger rests gracefully against his cheekbone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes runs his fingers through his hair, traces his hairline with his thumb. Pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger; twirls his pipe absently in his hands, the stem of it dancing between his fingers as he thinks. He unbuttons his jacket, scratches lightly at the vulnerable skin on the inside of his wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Small cuts and chemical stains dot his hands; a piece of tape is wrapped around the tip of his middle finger; a slash-shaped burn cuts across his knuckles, healing now, the skin a little darker where the flame from his matches lit upon him. One of his nails is cracked, others are dirty; his hands shouldn’t be appealing in the slightest, Watson thinks. Callused, marked by experiments and hard work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—and he left a note—” the client says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A note!” Holmes’s face lights up. His hands fly out, palms open and fingers splayed, a gesture that cuts straight to Watson’s heart in its simplicity, reminds him — somehow, stupidly — of doves taking off in flight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs at his own train of thought and forces himself to look away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Doves in flight</span>
  </em>
  <span> — that’s not going in the narrative, either, not by a long shot. He can already see Holmes’s smirk and hear him saying, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really, Watson, I think you’ve read enough Keats this week.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Wearily, Watson turns back to the client and forces himself to listen.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>He doesn’t manage to catch Holmes as he falls. Of course, he tries — it is, unfortunately, his instinct to reach for Holmes each time some scoundrel bullies him. But this time, the thief they’re facing is too big and too fast, and Watson is just a step too far away to get his hands on Holmes’s arm in time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the snap of delicate bones as Holmes is thrown to the floor, a stifled grunt that sounds more like indignation than pain. The largest and ugliest of the thieves puts his boot between Holmes’s shoulder blades, holds him down. The other two, smaller and just a little less ugly, waste no time in rushing forward. There’s a flurry of movement that Watson can’t quite follow — the sound of blows landing, the sight of dirty boots stamping down with frightening strength on Holmes’s hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The police arrive a moment later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Late, as usual.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s over quite quickly, in the end; Watson has just reached Holmes’s side by the time all three thieves are in cuffs, has just helped him into a sitting position when Lestrade barks for his men to take the thieves away; and Holmes has just leaned against him for support, huffing out a breathless, “Thank you, Watson,” when Lestrade strides over, his chest puffed up, and says,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well done as usual, gentlemen. I don’t suppose you’ve found the diamonds…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes shift down, over Holmes’s disheveled hair to his split lip and bruised cheek, then down to his hands. Watson follows his gaze, sees discolored skin and broken-open scrapes, streaks of blood, grit from the cobblestones ground into the wounds. Three of Holmes’s fingers are bent at odd angles, painful looking, but he makes no complaint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By God, Holmes,” says Lestrade gruffly, not bothering to finish his question. He gestures briskly to Watson and turns away, as if he can’t stand the sight. “Clean him up, man,” he says, unsettled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holmes scoffs under his breath — but he doesn’t pull away, and he leans heavily on Watson as they stand. His expression is one of wounded dignity, especially when Watson sets a slow and gentle pace on the way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t look at me so,” he mutters to Holmes. “I don’t know the extent of your injuries. You took several blows to the ribs, I believe—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite </span>
  </em>
  <span>alright, Watson,” Holmes says. “Don’t be a mother hen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps his hands away from his body, wrists held at an awkward angle, and tries unsuccessfully to turn a wince of pain into irritation. Watson, in turn, tries unsuccessfully to suppress a roll of his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It is a wonder, though Holmes will never tell him so, to watch Watson work. The light in their apartment comes warm and soft through the windows, makes Watson’s hair and skin glow golden wherever it touches him. He sits with his back to the glass, a basin of warm water between them on the tea tray, and Watson’s jacket is off, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows — a gesture of intimacy, of almost filial intimacy, so casual that Holmes’s throat tightens and he looks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says nothing as Watson examines him. His hands are warm and broad, his fingers deft, his fingernails short and clean. The hair on the back of his hands is sandy, matches his forearms perfectly. These are the hands of a surgeon and a soldier — strong and certain, gentle and confident. He dips his hands in the basin, and for a moment, steam obscures Holmes’s view; he watches through his eyelashes, pretending not to watch at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watson soaks a rag, wrings it out slowly, water trickling quietly back into the basin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This will sting,” he murmurs, and he takes Holmes’s broken hand in his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows just how to touch Holmes without causing undue pain. He doesn’t twist; he doesn’t manipulate. He coaxes Holmes’s fingers out of the fist he’s made of them, trails his thumb down the inside of Holmes’s palm, supports his wrist as he rests the warm, wet cloth against each wound and dabs it clean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes are hooded, warm. Competent. He knows exactly what he’s doing; he has no idea how self-assured he is, the confidence that rests on his shoulders. Has no idea how it affects Holmes, makes him long to give everything up, to let Watson take over, to let him manipulate and coax Holmes’s body — his hands — as much as he pleases, however he wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no idea how beautiful he is — in this light, in this role, so calm and strong and tender. At the breakfast table, his hands smoothing over the newspaper or pouring Holmes’s coffee for him. On a case, his fingers curled around the handle of a pistol, gunpowder streaked across his thumb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beautiful, full stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heart thudding, Holmes settles back against his chair, relaxed in a way he can’t explain, and watches Watson care for him until the sun is down. </span>
</p>
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